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Fable : Fall of the Guild	By : Samson Category: +A through F > Fable Views: 8222 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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King In Check.
Fable : Fall of the Guild

Part X - "...It Was To Save A Country"

By: Jesse Racine AKA Samson

Original Date Written: March 2, 2013

“Maybe we’re asking the wrong questions?” One League inquisitor thoughtfully said, turning and looking to her colleague. The second inquisitor barely shrugged, the burly man staring hard at Timoteo. “Maybe we’re not putting the right pressure.” He dubiously stated. Timoteo slowly looked up at them, breathing heavily with pain, his eyes bloodshot from sleep deprivation. Like Darrah and Brute, Timoteo had long been stripped out of his clothing, forced into torn scraps, laughable excuses for a shirt and pants. His torture had been quite similar to Bianca’s, by some unfortunate coincidence. Like his beloved, Timoteo’s arms had been pulled up towards the ceiling, shackles clamped tight around his wrists. Unlike Bianca, however, Timoteo’s ankles had also been shackled, pulled towards the ceiling to leave Timoteo suspended a few feet above the floor, his front side facing the concrete below. His arms and legs were kept spread by the chains, his limbs forced to deal with the weight of his body, gravity attempting to break his body and pull him back to the floor.
Agonizingly, he had not lost all feeling in his limbs, forced to endure the constant throbbing and straining, the sensation that his muscles were tearing under the pressure. Most of all, however, his back was the cause of his suffering, his spine feeling like a foreign object, his muscles burning and cramping as if to try and eject it’s uncompromising boniness from the confines of his torso. Under the constant pain and pressure, Timoteo had fully given in to his hate once more, his eyes empty and glassy, his mind black with constant thoughts of destroying the League. He had been questioned almost incessantly during the night, his two assigned inquisitors apparently having no other assignment to attend to, not even personal ones. Each of them was armed with a small metal hammer, less then ten inches long. Whenever Timoteo would answer one of their questions with nothing but silence, which he almost always did, they would use their hammers to give his joints a few taps, flaring pain inside him, vibrating his bones.
Timoteo glared at his captors, his torturers. The man was thick and beefy with muscle, barely contained beneath a jacket that seemed one or two sizes too small, for him. His face looked like it had been roughly chiselled from a hunk of stone, his jaw large and protruding, his brow beetling, making his eyes appear a little sunken. His hair had been cut short, not quite to the point of stubble, only barely longer than that. The woman, meanwhile, was dwarfed by the man, two heads shorter than he was, her thin, petite body at odds with the man’s animal-like musculature. If Timoteo had to describe the woman, he would politely refer to her as “unconventional”. Her forehead was a little larger than he found appealing. Her eyes almost seemed to bulge out of their sockets. Her nose was thick and protruding, and combined with a cleft chin, he simply could not view her as attractive. She, unlike her companion, let her coat remain unbuttoned, a wise decision her partner should’ve mimicked, considering his jacket looked ready to bust at the seams.
Her voice was light and almost snobby, while the man’s was deep and hulking. The man stepped closer to Timoteo, coming under the light blowing in through the opened hatch, in the ceiling. His face going partially shadowed from the light, his face appeared like a grim skull, the depressions of his eyes like black holes in his face, his cheeks appearing gaunt. Grabbing Timoteo by his hair, he made him grunt, pulling his head back until the two could meet eyes. Speaking slowly, punctuating each word, the man growled out “What...Is...Your...Name?” Timoteo raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. The man waited a few seconds before releasing Timoteo’s hair, letting his head hang down a little, once more. The two walked on either side of him, Timoteo’s jaw tightening up as he steeled himself. He didn’t even groan when they whacked their hammers against his elbows, his face barely twisting up with pain as his nerves screamed for mercy.
The woman sighed, sounding disappointed. “This isn’t working. I’m getting tired of questioning someone that wants to emulate a damn mute.” The man thought for a moment before snapping his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He said. Pointing to the floor beneath Timoteo, he said “Why don’t we get one of those spikes that Caroline likes to use, and slowly lower him down on it? It’ll stab into his gut, slowly and painfully. That should get some answers out of this punk.” Timoteo’s face started to tighten up with anger, particularly when the woman replied with a somewhat excited tone. “Yes, good thinking! His execution isn’t far off, anyway. A little gut wound won’t kill him before he gets out there, though he’ll probably wish it would. Let’s-” The woman was cut off by the loud sound of the door to the chamber suddenly being opened, the unlocked metal door being hastily pushed inwards. Standing in the doorway was a League member armed with a long, black firearm, clutching it up close to his torso. “Everything’s fine.” He simply said, stepping back out from the doorway. Several figures stood outside, but only Leroy strode in, looking around with a perpetually furrowed brow.
The two League inquisitors went rigid at the sight of him, their expressions ones of suppressed shock. “Mister Kreel!” The woman said, just a little uneasily. Leroy glanced at her, then looked at her partner. Finally, his eyes settled on Timoteo, suspended and helpless like he was. Timoteo stared at Leroy, and as great as the malice was in his eyes, it was bested by the malevolence in Leroy’s one functional eye. Leroy stared at Timoteo for a couple of seconds before looking back over to the female inquisitor. “I was in the area, and decided to check on you. I hear that you, as well, have made little progress. It’s disappointing to see that none of the four latest captives have been broken, yet. I expected better.” He said, a little flatly. The female inquisitor regretfully said “We’re sorry, mister Kreel...This one has proven rather stubborn. He refuses to even speak to us, most of the time.” “It’s your job to make him talk, whether he wants to or not.” Leroy coldly responded, his brow sinking further.
Leroy looked at Timoteo again, giving a nod, saying “In that position, I’m surprised none of you have tried to sodomize him, yet.” The male inquisitor’s face screwed up in disgust. “With all due respect, mister Kreel, that’s absolutely nauseating.” He commented. Kreel looked at the man and raised an eyebrow, wearily saying “I agree with you, but it seems like half of the inquisitors working at the Arena are sexual sadists. Don’t try and pretend as if it’s not true, I’m sure you even know who they are. I’ve already looked over many of the records for questioned prisoners, and frankly, it’s a little unsettling how many of the torture sessions had strong sexual overtones and symbolism. Things like a woman from the Darkwood Bordello being impaled through the genitals with a jagged metal spike, an unfaithful man being castrated with a club instead of a blade, that sort of thing.” The woman’s face went squeamish for a moment before she said “That’s disgusting...Well...Caroline always came across as kind of brutal, and-”
“Yes, Caroline, I know of her.” Leroy interrupted, his brow furrowing deeper. A little angrily, he said “Pathetic thing probably resents having been born a woman, and her bitterness about it causes her to take her aggression out on bound captives. I hate people like her, they seem to think that the world is cruel solely to one type of people, and that everyone else needs to give them restitution. Before joining the League, she probably had a nasty reputation for trying to turn men into something they’re not...I’ll let your imagination fill in the blanks. Now, she’s got all the power she wants. Classic power-tripping cretin. I never founded the League with the hope that people like her would join the ranks.” Looking back to Timoteo, Leroy narrowed his eyes, muttering out “I founded the League because I wanted people like him off of the stage. Until that goal is accomplished, however, I suppose little human rejects like Caroline are a necessary evil. She may not be working properly in her head, but her sadistic nature can be useful, if utilized properly.”
The male and female inquisitors subtly glanced at each other through the corners of their eyes, giving each other faintly bewildered looks. “Eh, yes, mister Kreel. Of course.” The female said after a moment, trying her best to sound like she was genuinely of the same opinion. The male inquisitor gave an agreeing nod. Leroy promptly held out a hand towards the man, still staring at Timoteo. “Give me your hammer. I’ll show you how to properly get answers.” The male inquisitor handed his tool over without hesitation, taking a step back from Timoteo, his female colleague following suit. Leroy held up the hammer, looking at it, as if he were a blacksmith scrutinizing a complex tool. Calmly, he said “Now, it’s my understanding that you haven’t even told us your name, yet. Your captor must not have known it, he left that spot blank on the form. So, let’s start with that.” Leroy moved like a whirling tornado, spinning his arm around in the blink of an eye, smashing the hammer into Timoteo’s right forearm, close to his shackled wrist.
Timoteo ignored the pain, not reacting. Leroy swung again, hitting the exact same spot with even more force. An audible cracking briefly sounded out as some of Timoteo’s bones were fractured. Timoteo’s eyes went wide, his jaw going tight. He suppressed an urgent grunt of agony, a cold sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. The shackle, very suddenly, felt like a restraint from Skorm, himself. The shackle, pulling on his arm from his wrist, was stretching the muscles against the cracked bones, almost making them feel as if they were cutting at him from inside. “What is your name, Hero?” Leroy methodically asked, staring down at Timoteo with a detached look on his face. Timoteo, breathing heavily with pain, said nothing. Leroy waited for only a couple of seconds more before he pulled the hammer back one last time, swinging it around and ramming it into the outside of Timoteo’s elbow. Leroy had to hit the Hero’s bones another two times before he got the desired effect.
More cracking sounds echoed throughout the small chamber. Timoteo jerked against his four shackles, groaning loudly in his throat, shutting his eyes tight. Baring his teeth a little, his arm began to rapidly twitch and quiver, quaking from the damage done. Leroy brought the hammer back again, then swung it once more into Timoteo’s elbow, the skin beginning to grow discoloured as more cracking sounds rose up. Timoteo let out a little shout, jerking against his bonds, once more. “What is your name?” Leroy patiently asked, glancing up towards the hatch in the ceiling as he did so. Panting with pain, Timoteo groaned out “Timoteo...My name’s...Timoteo...” Just a little condescendingly, Leroy smugly said “There, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Timoteo’s brow plunged downwards. Slowly looking up at Leroy, staring into his eyes, he hatefully muttered out “You’ll be dead before you even realize what’s going on.”
Leroy’s smile persisted, but his eyes began to narrow. Leroy swung the hammer up, brutally connecting with Timoteo’s chin. Timoteo’s mind went dark, his body going limp as he was knocked unconscious. Leroy held the hammer out for the male inquisitor, saying “Well, there you have it. You’ve gotten his name. I trust you’ll learn from my example, and apply a bit more pressure on him before he heads to his execution.” The two inquisitors stepped closer, nodding dumbly, not daring to do anything else. The male inquisitor took his hammer back, the two watching Leroy as he turned and departed from the room, one of his League bodyguards shutting the door for him. The two inquisitors looked over at each other, then down to Timoteo. The man raised an eyebrow, shaking his head a little. “That guy scares the shit outta me.” He simply commented. His female colleague merely nodded in silent agreement.
Gibbons and Marilyn made their way towards the Arena armoury, taking any passageway that would avoid the main areas where other League members were congregating and celebrating. Still, they ended up passing by numerous people as they travelled the hallways and staircases, the two acting as casually as they could. Some people didn’t even notice Gibbons, not bothering to look at him, in too much of a hurry. Most, however, glanced at him, their eyes lingering when they saw how pale he had become. Some looked curious, some looked amused, but thankfully, none of them appeared suspicious of him, even the ones he was sure had never seen him before, and thus could not know that his skin had not always been so deathly white. After he spotted a few people looking at him peculiarly, Gibbons began to walk with a little limp, bringing a hand over his stomach. He maintained an expression of mild pain and discomfort, helping to reinforce the idea that he was merely coming down with an illness.
After that, the looks he received from passing League members stopped being curious, becoming either sympathetic or glowering. After a little over ten minutes of crossing the Arena, the two made it to the armoury, approaching the large set of wooden double doors. The doors were left open, though two guards were posted outside, talking to one another. Inside, a requisitions officer sat behind a wide wooden desk, looking over several forms written over pale parchment. To go with the parchment, the man had several inkwells and quills, lined up in neat rows by the right side of his desk. Two doors sat behind the desk, shut and securely locked. The guards, from the sound of their conversation, were bitter about being stuck watching the armoury, when drinking and merrymaking was taking part in other parts of the Arena. Gibbons and Marilyn simply passed between them without a word, walking into the front room of the armoury.
The requisitions officer, a middle-aged man with a growing bald spot on the back of his head, gave them a nod, remaining seated as they approached his desk. “How can I help you?” He politely said, leaning back in his wooden chair. Marilyn spoke in a friendly tone as she said “Hi, we’re here to sign out ten firearms.” The man raised his eyebrows, opening up a drawer on his desk. “Lot of firearms for just two people. What do you need them, for?” Marilyn smiled and, quietly, said “We’ve just gotten some information about a Hero hideout. Keep it under your hat, okay? We’re planning on putting together a team to take them down.” The man smiled approvingly. “Heh, I see.” He said, bringing out a piece of parchment from the drawer. Laying it down on the desk near her, he slid over an inkwell and quill, gesturing for her to fill it out. “I take it you’ll need slugs and black powder, to go with them?” Marilyn took the quill, briefly dipped it into the inkwell, and leaned over towards the desk, her free hand against the desk’s edge as she began to fill out the requisition form.
“No, we’ve already got that covered. All we need are the extra firearms. Each team member should get a second one, in case they suddenly need to fire off a quick slug between reloads. So, it’s really not that big of an order. Say, you don’t have to check with anyone for approval, do you?” Marilyn said, blinking twice, looking up at the man with a growing smile. Gibbons watched as the requisition officer’s eyes began to turn smitten. A little bashfully, he said “I guess not, it’s not that big of an order. Don’t worry about it.” Marilyn let out a girlish titter, thanking the man. Gibbons raised an eyebrow, looking off to the side, pleased that Marilyn’s weak little seduction had worked. “What’s wrong with you?” The man suddenly asked, causing Gibbons to look back over to him. The requisitions officer was staring at Gibbons, looking at him a little suspiciously. Gibbons brought his hand to his stomach again, keeping his voice teetering on the edge of a groan as he said “Oh, I don’t know, man. I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve felt really sick ever since last night, I must’ve caught a bug, or something.”
The requisitions officer frowned. “Well, if you’re gonna puke your guts out, don’t do it in here, for Avo’s sake.” He flatly replied. Gibbons hold out a hand to reassure the man, but the requisitions officer just recoiled, hoping to avoid Gibbons’ non-existent virus. “Don’t worry, I’ve got good enough control over myself that I won’t hurl all over your pretty papers.” Gibbons said, just a little jokingly. The requisitions officer glanced at Gibbons’ hand, frowning more. “If you say so.” He simply stated, Gibbons withdrawing his hand. Marilyn signed her name at the bottom of the form, then handed it to the requisitions officer with a chipper smile. “Here you are.” She said. The man’s expression lightened when he looked back over to her, getting up from his chair, taking her form with a similar smile. “I’ll be a minute.” He said, looking at Marilyn warmly before heading over to one of two shut doors behind his desk. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked and opened the door, and disappeared inside the first armoury room, shutting and locking the door behind himself.
Gibbons reached over behind Marilyn, giving her a firm pat over her bum. Marilyn quickly looked at him from over her shoulder, standing up straight once more, no longer leaning over towards the desk. “What?” She hissed out with a hint of annoyance, raising an eyebrow at him. He smiled a little, quietly saying “Good job, it worked.” Marilyn slowly relaxed, starting to smile, too, as she faintly said “It usually does.” Loud footsteps reached their ears, the two hearing someone rushing towards the armoury, practically jogging. The two waited for the approaching individual to enter the armoury before they looked over. Her face still red with anger and frustration, Brute’s torturer came storming in, making a beeline for the requisitions desk. “Out of my way!” She commanded, almost pushing the two aside in her march for the desk. When she realized that the requisitions officer was gone, her hands went clenched into shaking fists, wild agitation flaring in her eyes.
“Someone’s having a bad day.” Gibbons jestingly said, raising an eyebrow. The inquisitor whirled towards him, her eyes wide, her teeth bared. “You could tell that easily?” She snapped, giving him a hostile, wide-eyed glare. Marilyn’s brow furrowed a little as she said “Hey, settle down. Whatever’s bugging you, we can’t be at blame. What’s your problem?” The woman, panting, glanced towards her side, not quite looking at Marilyn from over her shoulder. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, apparently thinking. Eventually, the fire in her eyes began to die. She sighed irritably, pacing off to the side, saying “I’ve been dealing with this one asshole of a Hero for hours, now...I haven’t slept since he came in. He’s scheduled for execution in, like, an hour, and I still haven’t broken him.” Gibbons and Marilyn subtly glanced at each other, then continued watching the inquisitor. The inquisitor glanced upwards in annoyance, shaking her head, saying “Oh, if that stupid prick sits on the spike while I’m gone, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep himself from slitting his throat. He’s only supposed to do it in front of me, it’s no fun if I miss the whole thing!”
“Then what’d you come here, for?” Gibbons asked. The woman faced him, her brow sinking, again, in anger. “Because I can’t just...” The woman abruptly trailed off, her head leaning backwards as she gave him a perplexed look. “...You’re pretty pale. You feeling alright?” She asked, curiously. Gibbons raised his eyebrows, shaking his head, his eyes going half-closed. Bringing a hand to his stomach, he visibly swallowed before he said “No, actually...Think I caught a bug while I was out, the other day. You know how it is, you deal with all types on missions.” The woman looked at him for a second or two, then shrugged, looking away. “Yeah, I guess.” She simply said, in a bit of a mumble. Absent-mindedly, she added “If you’re that pale, though, you should think about going home. You’re probably gonna start puking any second, now.” Gibbons dropped his hand back to his side, simply saying “Can’t. Have work to do, still.”
Before the woman could reply, the requisitions officer unlocked the door to the first storeroom, opening it up a second later. In each hand, he held two pairs of black firearms, tied together at the handles with some thin twine. The last pair were stuck into his pants pockets, the handles sticking out by his sides. “Here you are, ten firearms.” He agreeably said, shutting the storeroom door with a foot, walking back over to his desk. He placed all the firearms over his desk before walking back over to the storeroom door, locking it with his key. “Jeez. Lotta firearms, for two people.” The inquisitor commented, an eyebrow raised. “That’s what I said.” The requisitions officer said, beginning to smirk. “Eh, you got a bag we could carry these in?” Marilyn asked, looking at the five pairs of firearms with a sort of overwhelmed expression painted on her face. The requisitions officer promptly reached under his desk, pulling up a small burlap sack.
Turning it over on top of his desk, he emptied out the contents, then thrust the bag out for Marilyn to take. The bag had been holding a pair of utensils, along with several apples and a hunk of cooked meat, wrapped up in paper. He smiled a little sheepishly, Marilyn giving him a sweet, appreciative smile of her own. She took the bag, daintily beginning to slip the unloaded firearms into it, ending up making it bulge a little with the burden. Brute’s inquisitor watched them quietly, waiting for them to leave before she began barking at the requisitions officer. Again, Gibbons and Marilyn made their way through the Arena, this time making their way towards their personal, dormitory-like chambers. They ended up having to pass several crowds of people, Gibbons keeping his head down, trying to attract as little attention as possible. When they got to their personal quarters, they quietly slipped inside, shutting and locking the door behind them.
If anyone had noticed them, they decided, they would probably just assume that they were a pair of lovers, looking for the thrill of having a passionate tryst inside their own workplace. Gibbons sighed once they were inside, muttering out “I could feel their eyes on me, some of them were suspicious.” The room, bare aside from matching pairs of narrow beds, desks, and chairs, was dark and shadowy once the door had been closed. Marilyn, walking over to one of the beds, laid the burlap sack near the bed’s single pillow. “We’re fine...We’re fine. And even if we aren’t, it won’t be long, now. Less than an hour, surely.” Gibbons nodded, walking over towards the cot. Marilyn stepped over to the desk nearest to the cot, pulling open a drawer. Grabbing a fresh candle from inside, along with a small metal apparatus, she laid the candle down over the desk, then brought the apparatus over the top. The apparatus, which was a few inches long and shaped like a rectangle, had a small, block-like button on the side of it, along with a narrow hole on the underside.
Squeezing the button and holding it for several seconds, she waited until she had quietly counted to five, then released the button. Moving the tool to the side, she saw that the candle wick had been lit, offering some illumination to the room. “We better get started loading these up.” Gibbons quietly said, opening the sack, turning it over and emptying out the firearms. Marilyn didn’t respond, opening up another drawer on the desk, revealing several pouches and sacks of firearm slugs and black powder. As she pulled them out with one hand, she started pulling off her coat with the other, revealing the dark t-shirt she was wearing beneath. Gibbons watched her drop her coat to the floor with one hand, pulling out firearm necessities and resting them over the top of the desk, safely distanced from the candle. His eyes roamed along her body, a little smile beginning to grow on his face. He stepped over to her, taking her by surprise when he grabbed her hips, turning her around towards him.
He kissed her passionately, making her mumble in her throat at the unexpected oral embrace. She brought her hands to his shoulders, kissing him back, closing her eyes. He reached down and around her, purposefully running his hands down over her rump before going just beneath, grabbing at her thighs. He made her gasp when he suddenly lifted her up, making her sit on the edge of the desk, spreading her legs wide. She opened her eyes and pulled her head back, parting their lips. Quietly and affectionately, she said “Gibbons, we can’t, you know that...We don’t have time, we need to prepare...” Gibbons came closer, holding her by her hips, kissing at the side of her neck. “We’ve got over half an hour, we’re fine...” He said, making her tremble when he kissed her skin. Marilyn brought her arms around him, smiling more at his insistence. “Gibbons...” She merely said, a little chastisingly. Gibbons began to speak in a playfully deep voice, kissing her between every few words as he said “Oh, my darling, my love, I cannot stand to be away from you, I need you, right here and now! Let me take you away from here, let me show you the mountains of the Northern Wastes, the trees of Greatwood, and the colours of the sea! Let us frolic in love together, like two frisky deer romping around in the woods!”
Marilyn snickered and, her tone playfully firm, said “Gibbons, cut it out! You know I hate it when you talk like that...” Gibbons grinned and, by her ear, he quietly said “It makes you laugh, though.” Marilyn smiled more. He pulled his head back, gazing into her eyes, seeing the happy look in her own. He brought a hand up to the side of her head, slipping his fingers into her strands, feeling around her until his hand was over the back of her head. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment or two before leaning towards one another, closing their eyes as they met lips. Marilyn mumbled pleasantly as he slipped his tongue between her lips, finding her own, playing with her, tasting her...
Within under an hour, there came a knocking at the duo’s door, signalling the imminent climax of their plan. Before answering the door, they each took five of the ten firearms, holstering them in hidden straps beneath their coats, giving each of them six firearms when their standard sidearms were added to the equation. Standing before the duo’s door was a small group of League members, one informing Gibbons that the group of Heroes he had brought in was going to be escorted into the arena proper in just a few minutes. As Gibbons had requested to be participating as an executioner, himself, the event couldn’t take place until he, and the other executioners, were present. Of course, when they noticed his pale complexion, they asked him if he was even fit to carry out his responsibility. Gibbons readily told them he was ready, and departed with them, leaving Marilyn to her half of the plan. Slipping off into the Arena, she sought out Leroy and Vincent, hoping to join them as they viewed the executions...
Marilyn walked throughout the Arena, keeping an eye on several entrances to the arena itself, waiting for the two leaders to show themselves. Every few seconds felt like an agonizing minute, Marilyn trying not to get worried, trying not to let her mind race with concern. Part of her was worried that neither of the two would come, and another part of her worried that perhaps she had missed them, and that they were already inside the arena. Walking quickly down a hallway, heading for a corner, her brow was furrowed, her eyes on the floor. Where the hell were they? Surely, they would be aware that the execution was minutes away. Marilyn didn’t notice the voices around the corner, speeding around it blindly. She closed her eyes with shock when she very nearly rammed into someone, barely coming to a stop in time to avoid rushing into the individual. Marilyn opened her eyes quickly, looking up into the one burning eye of Leroy Kreel.
Vincent Hopkins was at his side, the two keeping their entire entourage of guards with them, Leroy’s ten League bodyguards mingled with Vincent’s two Witchspotters guardians. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Marilyn apologetically said, noticing that Leroy’s guards, in particular, were eyeing her suspiciously. “No, you weren’t. No harm done, nevertheless.” Leroy calmly said, looking Marilyn up and down with a cold look on his face. “What’s your name, young lady?” Vincent asked, smiling a little. Marilyn looked at him and, her voice a little coy, said “Sarah, sir. Sarah Valentine. By your hat, I’d have to guess you were a Witchspotter.” Pretending to have surprise dawn in her eyes, she said “Hey, wait. Does that...Are you...Are you Vincent Hopkins?” Vincent gave a polite little nod, smiling more. Looking at Leroy with more surprise, she blurted out “A-Are you Leroy Kreel?” Leroy didn’t come across as particularly hostile or suspicious, but his expression seemed permanently annoyed, as if acknowledging her very existence bothered him immensely.
“Yes, I am. You’re in our way, Valentine. We’ve business to attend to. Don’t you?” Marilyn stepped out of their way, Leroy looking at Vincent as the two began to walk ahead, turning the corner. In a bit of a mutter, Leroy said “At least three quarters of the people here are getting drunk off their asses, it’s disgraceful. At least it keeps most of them out of our hair while we’re here.” Marilyn began to walk after them, trying to keep beside them, not hiding her presence. Neither of them noticed her, right away. Vincent smiled and said “Yes, I know what you mean. I’m glad to say my people have a little more self-control.” Without hostility, though clearing warning Vincent, Leroy said “You wouldn’t have any people if not for me, Hopkins. Never forget that. The Anti-Hero League is still the largest backer of Witchspotter operations.” Vincent’s smile withered almost instantly. “Yes...Yes.” He simply said, a little thoughtfully. Leroy noticed Marilyn, looking at her, Vincent looking at her a moment later. “Like a motherless kitten.” Vincent commented, just a little patronizingly.
Marilyn didn’t let it show on her face that she felt offended, but she was unable to say anything before Leroy spoke. “Did you want something?” Marilyn didn’t react to his annoyed tone, resisting the urge to respond rudely. Marilyn gave them a friendly smile, asking “Were you going to watch that execution, coming up? I was thinking of seeing it, myself. I’ve got about an hour before I leave for a mission in Bowerstone, and I don’t want to get drunk before I get on a ship.” Marilyn almost flinched when Leroy suddenly leaned his head back and let out a laugh, smiling disarmingly. The sudden twist in his demeanor came as a shock to Marilyn, and judging by how Vincent raised his eyebrows and glanced over, it was a surprise to him, too. Leroy was still smiling as he said “I made that very mistake when I set sail for Knothole Glade, just a few days ago. Alcohol and the rolling ocean do not mix well, that’s for sure.” Vincent looked back over to Marilyn, a little slowly suggesting “Were you thinking of joining us? I’m sure the company would be pleasant...”
Marilyn smiled alluringly, the innocence in her smile false, treacherous. “I would love to. I heard through a friend that the four captives are practically celebrities.” “I wouldn’t say that.” Leroy simply said, the group taking another turn, heading towards a sandstone staircase. “Two of them are annoying individuals whose deaths will serve more as messages, than anything else. The other two are of no significance.” Leroy added, sounding a little bored. “I see.” Marilyn calmly answered. Vincent looked over at Leroy and said “Ah, I almost forgot. Leroy, I’m going to need a bundle of flintlock rifles for a team I’m sending to Snowspire. I’ve received several reports about some kind of snow-witch living in the Northern Wastes, and the locals are, as usual, uncooperative. They won’t tell my people where she is, they’ll have to trek out and search for her.” “Fine. Sometimes I despise that frigid little corner of Albion. The damn environment has coloured their stubborn personalities, they’ve been indignant to our presence ever since the beginning.”
The large group beginning to climb the staircase, Marilyn kept her silence, listening and trying to be forgotten about.”They don’t suspect Heroes, they think we’re lying. It’s their good fortune to have only been contacted in recent memory by Heroes too busy to cause chaos.” Vincent remarked. Leroy sighed irritably, muttering out “Jack of Blades comes back as a dragon in their own damn backyard, and they don’t despise people with Heroic abilities? Sometimes I wonder if the cold has damaged their brains.” A few snickers rose up among Leroy’s bodyguards. “Let’s get this over with.” Vincent simply replied, gesturing towards the bright light at the top of the staircase...
When Timoteo was finally allowed out of his shackles, it was done in the most cruel way possible. Left hanging, the inquisitors not caring if he slammed down into the rough floor, undoing his wrist shackles to let the top half of his body hang down against the floor. When his legs were unshackled, the lower half of his body hit the floor in a hard jumble, tears running into his eyes when his broken right ankle bashed into the floor. Despite the brutality encouraged by Leroy, Timoteo had refused to tell the inquisitors anything besides his name, causing them to try their hardest to break his tough Hero bones. He was sure they had broken two of the fingers on his left hand, as well as his ankle. They had tried to break the femur in his left thigh, and though they had failed, they had certainly injured his leg to the point where he didn’t think he could walk on it. Combined with his broken ankle, he felt paralyzed, incapable of moving.
He thought they may have cracked one of his ribs, at one point, but he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that the right side of his torso felt agonizingly tender, his body hurting when he merely attempted to breathe in too deeply. They kicked at him to try and make him stand, but when it became apparent that he wasn’t defying them and was merely incapable of putting pressure on either leg, they ended up grabbing him under his shoulders, dragging him out of the torture chamber. That, of course, dragged his legs along the floor, shooting grinding pangs of pain along his nerves. Timoteo eventually willed himself to get up on his feet, putting most of his weight on his unbroken leg, putting as little pressure on his broken ankle as humanly possible. Brought out into the hallway, he saw his three companions for the first time in many anguished hours. Bianca had, by then, been stripped out of her dark, attractive clothing, forced into the same scraps that the rest of them wore, removing the final shred of her identity that the League could scrape away.
Vincent had made sure to harass Bianca one final time, however; he had ensured that Bianca’s top had been made exceedingly small, turning it into a mere loop that went around her torso. Tight and thin, it strained against her chest, unable to even fully cover her delicate pink areolae. It had the desired effect, unfortunately. Bianca felt humiliated by the garment. She had been forcing herself to breathe shallowly ever since she had been given the rough loop of fabric, worried that breathing too deeply would rip the garment apart. She walked slowly and weakly, both of her legs shaking, her arms hanging limply by her sides. Her eyes looked weak, but upon seeing him again, a noticeable wave of relief washed over her. When she noticed how injured he was, though, tears ran into her eyes. Darrah, like Timoteo, was practically being dragged, two inquisitors forced to grab her under her arms, partially carrying her. She was surprisingly quiet, her eyes lingering on Timoteo with concern.
She felt a fresh wave of humiliation at being brought before her friends, her thighs and calves sticky with her own urine, Darrah thinking they would lose respect for her after seeing what the League had done to her. Her entire face was bloodied, much of it swollen and discoloured from Leroy’s earlier pummelling. Brute, like Darrah, had a damaged face, but his was clearly worse. He was smiling, despite the situation, because despite the inquisitor’s best efforts, she had not broken him, she had failed to make him collapse down on her spike. In blind rage, she had taken a sheet of parchment, slathered it with glue, and broken a glass bottle over it, letting the fragments stick to the parchment. Then, she had swung the parchment over, slapping Brute over the side of his face with the improvised weapon. The glass shards had shredded the left side of his face, giving him brutal injuries similar to the grisly wounds a balverine’s claws could inflict.
Without a doubt, Brute would be scarred, perhaps even disfiguringly so. The injury had covered most of his face with blood, along with a good part of his chest and stomach, blood still running from the many slices and lacerations in his flesh. Darrah and Brute were kept restrained, their hands tied behind their backs, ensuring that the Heroes of Strength wouldn’t call upon hidden reserves of energy and attempt to escape. The Heroes of Will, however, were deemed too weak and exhausted to be of any threat, and were simply escorted under guard towards the arena. As soon as they could get close enough, Bianca had leaned over towards Timoteo, whispering that she loved him, in case it might be the last time she could speak the treasured words. Timoteo said the same, kissing her before any of the guards could pull them apart. For their display of love, they were both bashed over the backs of their heads with the handles of firearms, dazed by their guards.
Led through several hallways, they were eventually brought to a long hallway, a bright light flooding in from the end. It was quiet, giving them some hope that Gibbons’ and Marilyn’s plan had succeeded. Surely, if many people were in attendance for the execution, the group would be able to hear it, from their position. “Won’t be long, now. Then it’ll all be over.” One League member stated, neither sadistically nor compassionately. Darrah started to smile to herself, her eyes dark with internalized laughter. They were marched into the light, their nostrils assaulted by the smell permanently stained over the arena grounds, the blood and sweat of innumerable warriors and beasts. The arena proper was made from sandstone that blended in quite a bit with the dusty grounds of the arena, almost making the walls and spires jutting up around them seem like growths of the earth, a merciless extension of Albion, itself. The arena was open to the sky, unlike the rest of the building, showing off how overcast the heavens had become.
As was usual for the island, heavy clouds were massing up above, black and consuming, threatening them all with another of the rainstorms the land was infamous for. The stands, high and looming around them in a large circle, were almost entirely empty. Aside from a few individuals spread out among the stone benches, there were remarkably few people in attendance. A pair of executioners already awaited the group, each having a firearm smartly brandished in one hand. The group noticed, purposefully without reaction, that one of the two was Gibbons. He had a neutral expression on his face, but they could tell from the gazes he gave each of them that it hurt him to see his friends so brutalized. Bianca subtly looked around, looking for Leroy and Vincent. She spotted them, sitting not far from the corridor into the arena the group had come from. They were all in a dense collection, together, in the stands, Leroy and Vincent seated ahead of their protectors.
It was hard to tell from down in the arena, but Bianca swore she could see Vincent smiling from ear to ear. He was probably having the time of his life, watching Bianca get marched out to her death. Her teeth began to grit against one another, Bianca narrowing her eyes. She stared at Vincent until the guard leading her along smacked her over the back of her head, forcing her to look forwards, once again. She had been so focused on Vincent that she didn’t know if Marilyn was up with the group, but she trusted that if Gibbons had gotten into his position, then Marilyn would have accomplished the same.
The guards leading the group, four in total, one for each prisoner, half walked and half dragged them to the center of the arena. “Drop, nice an’ easy.” One guard firmly said. Timoteo, his legs causing him an extreme amount of suffering, needed several seconds to drop to his knees. His heart was pounding, sweat beading on his forehead. Adrenaline was flooding him, making time seem to stop. Bianca went down beside him, painfully falling to her knees, banging against the hard ground. She sniffled quietly, reaching over, slipping her hand into his. He held back, threading fingers with her, squeezing tight. Darrah, insolent even in the face of an execution, had to be kicked behind her knees before she would drop down. Brute, his knees already aching from his sadistic inquisitor’s hours-long torture, winced when he dropped down. Two of the guards looked up at Leroy, giving a respectful nod before the departed.
Each prisoner was left with a single executioner, their firearms at the ready. Gibbons’ breathing began to pick up with anticipation. His concern was more for Marilyn than any of his friends. His eyes flitted over towards the stands. He could see her by her flaming red hair, sitting amongst Leroy’s personal guard, not far behind the leaders of both the Anti-Hero League and the Witchspotters of Albion Society. None of them had expected Leroy to have so many bodyguards, they had, a little naively, hoped he would come to the Arena with an inconspicuous force, like Vincent. Perhaps two protectors, but no more than three. Gibbons swallowed, quietly. He knew Marilyn’s survival depended on split-second actions, blinding speed. With so many firearms surrounding her however, and rifles no less, he felt a distracting amount of concern for her safety. “Let’s start the show.” One executioner said, nodding at the others. Timoteo felt the barrel of a firearm come down, pressing against the back of his head.
His mind went utterly blank. His brow slowly sunk, his eyes going up towards Leroy and Vincent as he heard the hammer of the flintlock mechanism shift back...
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Fable : Fall of the Guild